


Tip of Your Tongue

by coricomile



Series: BB!Patrick Makes a Sex Tape [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Public Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something on the screen makes Patrick jump. He tightens his hand on Pete's thigh, fingers digging in. Pete makes a strangled noise and jets. He needs to be in the bathroom. Now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tip of Your Tongue

The movie theatre is too hot. Pete can't stop squirming in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs, tapping a rhythm against his knee. His arm is pressed against Patrick's from elbow to pinky, sucking in his heat. 

Patrick, for his part, is oblivious. His eyes are on the movie, wide behind his brand-new glasses. He's leaning forward a little, popping Sourpatch Kids into his mouth with one hand. Pete's doing his best not to look, but Jesus. Patrick's mouth is open just a little, and he sucks on the candy before actually eating it, and Pete- Pete is only human.

On screen, Christian Bale is doing crunches, narrating Patrick Bateman’s morning routine. Usually, Pete would be all about this. Because, seriously, _Christian Bale_. Today, though, he's stuck on the up-down of Patrick's hand, stuck on the flick of Patrick's tongue across his fingertips.

He thinks about watching Patrick suck on his fingers before fucking himself with them. It plays behind his eyelids every time he closes his eyes. 

Pete's jiggling his leg. It's obnoxious, but it works out the energy that's eating away at his insides. He's able to focus on the movie, at least, able to get into the chase and almost forget that Patrick is with him. Then Patrick's hand- hot and heavy- lands on his thigh. Pete stills. The hand stays.

Pete has gone to hell. He'd always pictured more flames. He stays very still, afraid that Patrick's going to realize what he's doing and pull away. Pete stares at the screen, but all he can see is Patrick's fingers in his mouth, Patrick's hand wrapped around his cock. He feels his own dick twitch and, Christ, his pants are too tight for this shit.

Something on screen makes Patrick jump. His hand tightens of Pete's thigh, fingers digging in. Pete lets out a strangled noise and jets. He needs to be in the bathroom. _Now._

Pete rushes through the lobby, ignoring the shouts of the kids behind the concession stand. He locks the door to the first stall in the bathroom and shoves a hand into his pants without any prelude. He can still feel the heat of Patrick's hand on his thigh. He's in the process of unzipping his fly when the outside door creaks open. 

"Pete?" Patrick sounds concerned. Such a good kid, always so _concerned_. Pete bites back a groan. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Pete chokes out. He reluctantly pulls his hand from his pants and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Patrick's sneakers are visible under the stall door. The left one is untied, laces frayed.

"Dude, you bolted on Bale- are you sick or something?" There's a soft thump. Patrick's leaning on the door, forehead pressed to it. Gross and kind of endearing. Patrick all over.

"Or something," Pete says. He can make out the curve of Patrick's cheek through the crack of the door. If Patrick tries, he'll be able to see exactly what Pete's doing. It’s sort of hot. Sort of terrifying. Pete's about to make a mistake. It’s what he’s best at. "So. I, uh, watched your video." Patrick jerks away from the door. Coughs.

"What?"

"It was hot, y'know? I've been thinking about it." Pete leans back against the wall. "Like, I'm gonna have jerk off material for the next, oh, forever." Pete's heart is pounding. His palms are slick. He's a little freaked, but still, he opens the stall door and yanks Patrick inside.

Patrick's face is red across his cheeks and nose, and he looks equal parts embarrassed and angry. Pete has the decency to pull his hoodie down over his hard-on, but he's pretty sure Patrick can feel it anyway.

"If you're fucking with me, I'll kill you." Patrick fists a hand in his hoodie and yanks him in, kissing him. It’s hard and a little wet. He tastes like the memory of sour candies and stale Coke, and Pete's a little stunned. He didn't actually expect to get anything but slugged. This is why, when Patrick pulls away Pete, maybe, overreacts.

He launches himself forward, pinning Patrick to the door, and presses their mouths together. There's no way Patrick can't feel Pete hard against him, but Pete's too distracted by the slide of Patrick's tongue to care. One hand is wrapped up in Patrick's ugly sweater, the other fighting a losing battle to knock Patrick's hat away. 

Patrick kisses like. Well, like a fifteen-year-old, but that's hot in a way Pete's trying not to think about. Instead, he rubs himself against Patrick's hip and groans. He can feel Patrick getting hard against his thigh, can feel his hands clenching and unclenching at Pete's hips.

"Jesus, Rick, you have no idea," Pete breathes against Patrick's neck. He works Patrick's fly open with one hand, knuckles skimming across the soft skin of Patrick's stomach. 

Patrick looks terrified. His eyes are dark though, and he's grinding down against Pete's thigh. He whines when Pete wraps a hand around him. Pete presses his face against Patrick’s neck and bites down. He tastes salty. Sweet.

"What were you thinking about when you made it?" Pete asks, rubbing his thumb in small circles at the base of Patrick's cock. Patrick's breathing stutters. " _Who_ were you thinking about?" Pete's pretty sure it's the adrenaline making him this ballsy. That's why he doesn't think before he drops to his knees.

His calves are cramped, pressed to either side of the toilet, and if he leans back he'll probably pull something. It’s worth it for the way Patrick looks at him. He tugs Patrick's jeans and boxers down and presses his face to Patrick's hip. The skin there is hot and damp, and Patrick's hands are moving from his hat to Pete's shoulders to Pete's hair uncertainly. 

"Pete," Patrick groans. His glasses are crooked, his lips red and wet. Pete wants to tie him to a bed and fuck him for days.

"Talk to me," Pete says against the slick skin of Patrick's hip. Patrick's thighs shake.

"Pete, you asshole, either suck my dick or get the fuck out." Patrick's hands settle on Pete's shoulders, fingers twisting in his hoodie. Pete laughs. Patrick’s thighs shake under Pete’s palms.

"Feisty," he says. He licks the head of Patrick's cock with a broad swipe of his tongue. Patrick's head thumps against the door. Pete wraps his lips around him and goes for gold. Pete, he's not really so much about sucking dick. But Patrick's squeezing his shoulders and squirming under Pete's hands and biting his lip to muffle sweet, high moans. Pete can live with this.

"You," Patrick says breathily. Pete looks up at him, flicking his tongue over the tip of Patrick's cock. "I was thinking about you, and you came over after, and I would _so_ let you fuck me- Jesus, don't stop-"

"Turn around," Pete says thickly. Patrick whines, tugging at Pete’s shoulders. "Just do it, dude." Ruefully, Patrick turns and braces himself against the door. 

Pete presses a kiss to the small of his back. He tastes sweat and skin, and he loves it because it's _Patrick_. The kinky little fuck. He runs his tongue over the swell of Patrick's ass, soft and round and warm, biting gently. Patrick groans, presses back into it. Pete touches his tongue to Patrick's tiny pink hole, cock aching at the thought of being inside him. He licks once, twice, and then presses in. 

Patrick bucks his hips. He's jerking himself off, and Pete wishes he could see both sides, wishes they were somewhere else. He rubs soothing hands over Patrick's hips and curls his tongue. The soft sighs are echoing off the walls, coming back in surround sound.

"I want to watch you fuck yourself," Pete says. "Would you let me do that?"

Patrick says nothing, but he nods, pressing back into Pete's touch. He reaches back blindly, fingers catching in Pete’s mouth, and Pete sucks at them. Gets them wet, tongue splitting them apart. When Patrick takes them out, Pete unzips his jeans and pulls his dick out. His hand is a welcome relief.

The angle is awkward, but Patrick reaches back and presses his middle finger into himself. He twists his wrist, rocks back into his hand. Pete leans in and licks around the finger, wriggling the tip in beside it. Patrick whines, high in his throat. Pete wants to record that sound, listen to it when he can’t sleep. 

"Put another one in," Pete says, lips ghosting across the soft skin of Patrick’s ass. He watches as Patrick pulls his hand back. Patrick crosses his fingers and presses them to his hole, stroking. Teasing himself. Teasing Pete. Pete bites at his hip, leaving a red mark behind. Property of Pete Wentz. "No playing, dude. Seriously." 

Patrick laughs, a little out of breath, and shoves his fingers in. His voice cracks, and that's about where Pete's breaking point is. He jerks himself too hard, too fast, and comes over his hand, moaning into Patrick's thigh. He yanks Patrick's hand away and presses his own come-sticky fingers in, thrusting harder than Patrick had. Patrick jerks back, swearing.

Pete wants to sink into his heat. Wants to bend him over and pound into him until Patrick begs. He spreads his fingers and presses his tongue back in, fucks Patrick with as much of him as he can. Patrick’s shaking against him, pumping his cock. His elbow keeps catching Pete’s shoulder, sure to leave a mark. Pete fits a third finger into him, stretching him wide, and Patrick comes in thick stripes over the door.

It takes a few tries, but Pete manages to do up the fly of his jeans. Patrick opens the door and almost falls out. He hasn't looked back, and that's making Pete's stomach turn uncomfortably. Slowly, Pete stands. His legs are numb, clumsy.

"Hey, are you okay?" He asks. Patrick shrugs. He's leaning against the sink, trying to even his breathing out. His fingers shake as he tries to do up his jeans. Pete, well, Pete's not really done taking risks today. He wraps his hands around Patrick's hips. Kisses his hot forehead. 

"You tell anyone about that tape and I swear to god-" Patrick still won’t look at him.

"Dude, your home movies are for my eyes only. If, you know, you want them to be." Pete tries not to freak out. Tries to keep his cool. If Patrick turns him down now, after all of-

"Yeah," Patrick says shyly. His cheeks are still pink, and there's sweat dampening his growing sideburns. He grins. "Yeah, I want that." And, as Patrick kisses him stupid, Pete thinks about how awesome that is.


End file.
